Page 234 of One Wild Wish

Before I could ask what that meant, the voice that had filled my stereo and iPod the past nine years flowed through the speakers.

August was on stage, mic at his lips as he settled on a stool and introduced himself. The other band members filed off. I held my breath. I’d watched August on YouTube, had listened to each of his albums on repeat. Never had I seen him live on stage, spotlights sharpening his cheekbones, shadows darkening his eyes.

My broody, sexy man.

“I’ve had kind of a wild day,” he said as he plucked at the guitar strings, tuning it, learning the instrument. It had always been second nature to him. Like breathing. I’d enjoyed guitar because it was something I could do with August. He’d loved it because it was his oxygen.

“The kind of day,” he went on, eyes downcast, random notes strummed, “that knocks you on your ass. Reminds you what’s important in life. Teaches you you’re dumber than you realize.”

The crowd laughed. A nervous sound bubbled out of me.

He lifted his gaze then, his eyes black from this distance. He stared right at me. “This one’s for the only girl who ever mattered.”

The emotional distance I’d been struggling to maintain thinned. I wanted to be at the front of the stage, tossing my bra at his feet, slinging my underwear at his face. I wanted to be his groupie and his girlfriend.

Then he strummed the opening to “Girl with the Black Heart.”

Now I wanted to light the stage on fire. “What the fuck is he doing?”

Finch looked horrified. “Not what I told him to do.”

I punched his shoulder, because I couldn’t punch August. “Does he think he’s being funny?”

Finch rubbed his arm. “I think he’s lost his mind.”

Oh, he was going to lose his mind, all right. I’d shake him until he couldn’t form a freaking sentence. My nails bit into my clenched palms, sweat gathering under my bangs. I was going to kill August Cruz and his not-funny sense of humor. How could he think I’d enjoy this? Or was he trying to end things before they got too complicated? Hurt me the way I’d hurt him, gloriously, publicly.

August sang the opening to his hate song, unwavering attention on my face. After the first chorus, people began glancing at me. There was no mistaking August’s focus and who the lyrics described.

She turned my world black

Darkness spewed from a liar

The only way to seek light

Was to light her shadow on fire.

Shame seared my throat. Energy drained from my limbs. It hurt worse than the first time I’d heard the hateful lyrics, and regret reared its ugly head.

There was hurt in August’s raspy voice, but it wasn’t resentful hurt, like when he’d lit into me at my mother’s. That long-overdue confrontation had been ripe with bitterness. This was different—softer, plaintive—similar to our small fight here, at the bar. Because I’d held him at a distance, like always. Scared to hold on. Scared to love and lose.

Guess I hadn’t changed much since my pathetic teen years.

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Finch whispered.

He should have directed his aggravation at me.

I’d forced August’s hand. We had less than two days together, and I fought us every step of the way, giving him my body, not my soul. If this was him ending things now, because I couldn’t offer him that chance, trust him with my heart, the fallout could be catastrophic. The type of regret that led to losing the music from your world. Sucking the dance and color from your life. Even so, I wasn’t sure I could give him what he wanted: all of me.

The song shifted, the chorus changing from the one I’d memorized. I frowned. Then I bit my lip.

She turned my world black

Because she owned my heart

A connection deeper than forgiveness

The kind that brings a fresh start